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One Minnesota winter, the snow and ice settled thick on our deck steps making it a hazardous trip to the compost bin near our garden. Not wanting to toss perfectly compostable veggie peels into the garbage, but not eager to spend thirty minutes in the freezing cold to shovel and chisel the steps clear, we stuck a tall garbage bin on the deck and called it good enough.

We opened the deck door a crack and tossed into the bucket our potato skins, banana peels, and lettuce lost to the back of the crisper finally found. No shoes, hats, or mittens needed. I wondered why more people didn’t have their compost bucket right outside their door for the winter.

“Mama! What’s dat?” said Alex, our 4-year-old asked. I turned to see Alex and Amy, our 2-year-old, standing near the deck door. Just on the other side of the deck door balanced atop the compost bin sat a large, pink-snouted, rat-tailed creature. The furry hulk disappeared into the bin.

“It’s a possum! Mike, come look!” I called to my husband, who joined us gawking out the door. I picked up Amy to help her see into the bin. She smushed her nose against the glass. I hauled Alex up on my other hip and the four of us stared, silent and still, as the opossum dined on squash peels and apple cores. After a time, Mike and I returned to making dinner, but Alex and Amy stayed to watch until the possum climbed out and ambled away.

Over the next month, the possum returned several evenings to feast in our compost bin. Each time, Alex and Amy delighted in the big snout and the white furry face that would turn to look at them. They chattered softly about the long hairless tail and the big black eyes.

Eventually, the snow melted and it seemed wise to redirect the compost to its usual bin, so the opossum stopping visiting our deck. We didn’t see possums before our winter compost bin and we haven’t seen them since. I’m tempted to put the scrap bin on the deck this winter to see their long faces peering into my house again. The kids are almost teenagers now, but I bet their possum joy is still there.

Two summers ago, upon my return from the Boundary Waters in northern Minnesota, I sat outside a coffee shop in my suburb and cried. Once I finished crying, I set to realigning my daily life and haven’t yet stopped.

While ordering iced coffee, I felt the indoor air heavy and stale on my arms. I retreated to the front porch to be with the breeze. I had staggered into my usual routine on this first full day back, but I longed to be paddling on the water, hiking the portages and stepping over and on rocks and logs and mud and munching on the occasional tiny, juicy raspberry on the side of the trail. I needed the heavy pack on my shoulders keeping me grounded.

There in the woods, I felt strong and beautiful and I knew what my purpose was. Here next to the shop’s well-manicured lawn, I felt more lost than I ever did searching for the next portage or campsite. I felt weak and ugly. At our campsites, I did not miss mirrors or screens or windows. Out there, I remembered parts of myself I had forgotten, like shoulder muscles, strong ankles and the nature, solitude and silence I loved.

There, I stepped firmly and confidently through mud while carrying a canoe on my shoulders. I wore bruises as badges of honor. Sweat from physical exhaustion produced much less odor than stress sweat. Permanent ponytails were acceptable and bras were optional in our small group of four women. We enjoyed a lunch of turkey and cheese rolled in a tortilla while drifting across Ada Lake. We agreed that mac and cheese never tasted better with its liquid butter and powdered milk than after miles of paddling and several wretched portages. For evening awe and entertainment, we watched a moose standing in the lake flinging his massive head out of the water, shaking his floppy ears and chewing on whatever tasty plants he was eating off the lake bottom. Bull frog croaks, loon calls and white-throated sparrow songs provided our trip’s soundtrack.

At the coffee shop, the traffic sounds were abrasive, like sandpaper on my eardrums. And so many people here, so clean, so pretty. Where are their paddles, their packs, their hats and hiking shoes? On the muddy trail, I saw the footprints of many who had passed before me. On the rocks I saw their wet steps. Here, the sidewalks remain flat and unmarked. The roads show no trace of its travelers except for the litter and potholes. Where does my attention go when I don’t have to watch my every step because the way is so paved? In watching my every step, I saw not-yet-ripe blueberries, crushed and scattered pinecone seeds, tadpoles, snakes and snails. I breathed small orange flowers, red bunchberries, and the dozens of shades of green.

I knew who I was out there. I knew what was expected of me, when to cook, when to clean, approximately where I was going, what I was to carry, when I could rest and wander on my own, when I could read and write. My shoulders ached and I felt alive. My lower back throbbed and I held a downward-facing dog pose for relief. I could meet my needs and the needs of my fellow travelers. All my senses were open and engaged. They still were that afternoon at the coffee shop, but in a few days I was dulled again. Dulled to the onslaught of this civil, social, loud, fast-paced world, so I could survive it.

There is nothing like the Boundary Waters here. Too many cellphone towers, big buildings, and asphalt roads. But I longed for it, that wildness, the fresh air, the getting up with the sun. I wanted to run back there, stay there, and be open to the sights and sounds unbounded by tall buildings and leaf blowers. Dashing off to the Boundary Waters isn’t a viable option; I need to be here, but I needed to do something to hold on to the feeling of being connected to my natural surroundings, to hang on to the attention of how my body moves in this world, to hold on to the delight of a hard day’s paddle, the call of the loon, the path through the woods.

“Baby snapping turtles!” Mike shouted. There they were: in the grass, on the street, along the curb, eight spiky-backed, sharp-beaked, no-bigger-than-a-quarter critters risking their lives to reach the pond.

On that afternoon in early September, we were on our daily after-supper family walk with my sister’s family. The four kids came running back because they had dashed ahead of us sauntering adults. They slowed and crouched, peering into the grass to see the dirt-encrusted, newly-hatched snapping turtles. The turtles looked like fierce gargoyles, but being so tiny they were undeniably adorable. The kids cooed and smiled.

Each child carefully picked up turtles by the rounded edge of their shells and gently carried them in their hands across the street in my neighborhood. Over the years we’ve seen many flattened turtles on the road. We don’t live on a busy street, but there’s no way anyone driving a car would spot these little creatures. The kids set the turtles down in the grass facing the pond, their ultimate destination until it was their turn to trundle up the hill, across the road and dig a nest less than five feet from my neighbor’s front door.

Have you seen a turtle digging in the soil, preparing to lay her eggs? Approach quietly, don’t get too close and shhhh. She’s working. Her back feet alternate pushing the soil out and away. Slowly, steadily she clears the cool dirt. She’s in no hurry, she has nowhere else to be at this moment. When the hole is deep enough, she lays her eggs in the nest. This can take some time. If you’re still there, if you haven’t had to take a phone call or make dinner, you’ll see the mother turtle push the dirt over the eggs, covering and protecting them. She leaves and so should you. Grass will grow over the area and no one will know about the little incubating eggs. Except you because you stayed and paid attention.